by Imogen Sera
“I’m not sure I believe anything you tell me,” she said, smiling slightly.
“That’s a good idea,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “But that is the truth. I don’t know because I don’t remember.”
“Don’t remember?” she prompted.
He paused and took a deep breath. “I’m very old, little dove. Your entire life has been a second in the span of my own. You’ve noticed my way of speaking?”
Mira shook her head.
“You don’t need to lie to be polite. It was obvious that you were… listening to me, when we first met. I wasn’t born knowing how to speak— I wasn’t born in a time when speech existed.” He leaned forward to study her face. “My earliest memories are as I am now, fully grown. But they are not here. I remember a time and place so far removed from here that it might as well have been another world. I remember the time before cities and towns and villages. I remember a time before carriages and horses and livestock and farming. When humanity learned to speak, I was already ancient. I learned to speak alongside mankind.”
Mira shivered in her seat but didn’t take her eyes from him.
“I don’t remember because my memories don’t stretch back that far. In truth, I believe I’m human. I have no magical capabilities, nothing setting me apart from you or any other human. Nothing apart from the fact that I cannot die.”
“Can’t die?” she asked. “You’ve tried to?”
“Not intentionally,” he said. “I enjoy life too much for that. But I’ve been in my share of accidents through the millennia. If it were possible— I would be dead.”
She paled at the thought. To be unable to die— how trapped he must feel. She again considered her feet, and the way the water moved over them. “So you like to use your ancient wisdom to dispense love advice to a selfish spoiled girl and the brooding dragon-man she likes to fuck?”
He grinned at her, baring all of his teeth in a smile that made her stomach turn. “In five hundred years,” he said, ignoring her question, “you will be dead. He will be dead. None of this will matter. In a thousand years, no one will have even thought of you in centuries, except maybe as someone they read about in a book, if you have any particular accomplishments.
“I will wake up in a thousand years and for me it will be as if no time has passed between today and that day. I will remember this well. And I will still be hoping for the best for you, before I remember that you’re dead.”
She looked at him and shivered.
“I would like very much,” he said, “if when that day comes, I can remind myself that you had a fulfilling life. It would be very kind of you to do that for me.”
“That seems as good a reason as any,” she said.
Cyrus paused. “I don’t think he pretends that you are her. I’ve seen the way you shrug off his… affection. I don’t think you should.”
Mira nodded and considered it. It was hard to ignore advice with the experience of civilizations behind it.
It was late when Tarquin returned. Mira had already bathed and was in her pajamas, but wasn’t tired enough to attempt to sleep. Her mind was still buzzing after her conversation with Cyrus.
She spent some time reading and some more time copying the letters that Lily had written for her. She copied them all three times, and examined her work critically. She didn’t seem to be getting any better, but she wasn’t sure what good writing the same letters over and over would do for her. Lily had been blessedly silent when Mira had asked her to write the alphabet for her, before she left, with none of her usual prying questions. She supposed that Lily probably suspected Mira’s inability to write, but found that she didn’t care as much as she thought she might.
Tarquin looked angry when he returned, and when he stalked through the door she wasn’t sure if his mood had turned sour because of her, or if it was related to whatever he’d been doing all day. He scanned the room, and when he saw her, his look softened. Not about her, then.
She didn’t know how to behave. Her instinct was to scornfully ask him how his day was, or to ignore him entirely until he forced her to acknowledge him. She’d been following her instincts up until then, though, and that had only gotten her into a mess that she couldn’t see a way out of; so she turned to face him and smiled.
He looked as surprised at her behavior as she felt. He opened his mouth to say something, seemed to think better of it, then crossed to the sitting area in the room and watched her from there.
“I’m sorry I was gone for so long,” he said. “I know you don’t like to be bored.”
She shrugged. “It’s not so bad here. I spent the day with Cyrus.”
There was an expression on his face that she didn’t recognize. “Is he… treating you well, then?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” she said, still sitting in her little chair at the desk.
“What did you talk about?” he asked.
It was an odd question from him. “You,” she said, a sly smile on her face. “And him. We talked about what he is.”
He laughed out loud at that, then stopped when he noticed her puzzled expression. “He told you what he is?”
“As well as he could explain it, I think.” She shrugged, then rose from her chair and crossed the room to sit on her side of the bed. “What did you do all day?”
His face darkened. “I can’t really talk about it,” he said. “I would tell you, but— Helias was quite specific about not sharing any details.”
She smiled faintly. She wished he would hold her and kiss her and tackle her to the bed. This normal, civil conversation was so far from normal that she had no idea what to do or say.
“I should—” he trailed off and then disappeared into the bathroom.
She breathed a sigh of relief and flopped back onto the bed. That had been uncomfortable. She didn’t know how to behave when she wasn’t being mean to him, and he apparently didn’t know how to react to her when she was being anything less than awful. She heard water running, so she tucked herself under the blankets and waited for him.
She watched him silently as he emerged and dressed for bed. He blew out the candles and the room plunged into darkness, with no light even from a fire. The magically heated room made it unnecessary.
When he climbed into bed, she waited for his touch, waited for him to reach for her and run his hands over her, like he always did. She held her breath as she heard him shift, held her breath as he silently stilled, and then— nothing. She thought about Cyrus in that moment; she thought about her impossibly short life.
She reached a tentative hand out and rested her palm on his bare chest. She could feel his heartbeat, and as she did, she could feel it speeding up. That was strange. She didn’t think she’d ever made anyone’s heart rate increase before. He was always the one in control.
He gripped her wrist, gently, but holding her to him. She scooted closer and pressed the length of her body against his, chest to chest, her hand in between. The warmth of him against her was lovely, even in the sweltering house; she didn’t know if there was anything that would make the sensation less pleasant. He didn’t move, but he sighed softly, so she moved her other hand to his cheek. She pressed her lips against his jaw, enjoyed the rough feeling of his stubble there, and then his arms went around her as they’d done countless times before. She rested her head on his bicep and moved her hand from his chest to circle around him and rest on his back.
She didn’t say anything, and he didn’t say anything, but they stayed like that until morning.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
They explored Amling the next day, at Mira’s insistence. She’d offered to go alone, wanting badly to see more of the city while they were there, but Tarquin had insisted on staying with her, and because of their easy affection the previous day she hadn’t protested. Cyrus had recommended a particular place for dinner, and had otherwise bid them well after offering Mira a pair of gloves to shield her hands from the cold. She’d pulled them on outside the front door, mak
ing a face at the way the fingers were each at least an inch too long for hers. She stuffed the gloves in her pocket, and when Tarquin offered his hand to her, she took it and enjoyed the steady warmth of it.
Touching him was becoming more comfortable. They had shared countless heated caresses, but the simple pleasure of his skin on hers, without leading anywhere, was becoming more and more enjoyable to her. She liked the way his fingers laced with hers, the way she could feel his callouses against her smooth palm, the way he squeezed it just a bit whenever she said something that made him laugh. They walked slowly, the cobblestone streets wet and covered in mud, and mostly in silence as Mira watched everything around her. She had never, ever been to a city before, had hardly been off of her farm before she was at Dragongrove, and the bright colors and constant hum of conversation and the many varied smells had all of her senses coming to life. She wasn’t sure where they were headed and didn’t really care, just enjoyed the atmosphere, enjoyed being able to melt into the crowd and not ever receive a second glance.
Tarquin, for his part, did seem to know where he was heading, and after several minutes he tugged her along to a wooden door of a large shop. She looked around and was surprised to see that it was full of clothing, for both men and women.
“I’m going to get heatstroke in the fucking house,” he muttered, but with a small smile on his face. “You should find something too, I saw you sweat through your shirt last night at dinner.”
She rolled her eyes at him and turned away, eager to look through the racks and racks of clothing. Her mother had sewn all of her clothes since she’d been a child, and then at Dragongrove she’d been allowed to pick through all of the old servants’ gowns. She’d never even known a place like this existed, and contented herself with picking through every single article of clothing she could find. She delighted over the range of fabrics; from heavy wool to soft cotton to silky sheer chiffon. She touched each of them as she found them, admiring the shapes and cuts of different shirts, and had hardly realized how much time had passed when Tarquin appeared at her side with his selections.
“Not finding anything?” he asked, glancing at her empty arms.
She grinned at him. “I’m finding everything.”
“Anything you want?”
“I suppose I should be looking for that,” she murmured to herself. She glanced up at him. “I don’t really have any money.”
He grinned. “You’re on a diplomatic mission as a representative of the crown, Mira, I think the royal coffers can afford to clothe you comfortably.”
“That sounds very important,” she said. “I thought I just came along to annoy you.”
“That too,” he said.
Mira emerged with a bag full of clothing that would be comfortable in Cyrus’s sweltering house, and a new pair of gloves that fit her nicely. When Tarquin reached for her hand again as they exited the shop, though, she pulled off that glove and deposited it in her bag so she could enjoy his bare skin on hers again. The warmth from his hand seemed to travel straight to her belly, and as they walked along and she paused to admire a street performer, he leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead.
It was achingly sweet, she thought, and as much as she’d enjoyed the morning, she couldn’t help but feel like it was impossible for this to last. She tried to push the thought from her mind, tried to focus on enjoying the cool air contrasting against his warm skin, to enjoy the way he talked to her about all of the times he’d been to the city before, but it was constantly there at the back of her mind, prickling at her. He was incapable of loving again— he’d said it himself. She didn’t think she was in any danger of falling in love, not when she was so good at guarding herself, but then he would say something to make her laugh an actual laugh, and she would look in his eyes and see something there that was sweet and lovely and so, so dangerous. She wanted nothing more than to pretend this could continue, if not past today, then past their entire trip, to pretend that they could go back to the palace hand in hand, and not with him glaring daggers at her if anyone was even in the same room.
It was easy here, if she ignored the face that they were so wrong for each other that this couldn’t possibly last. Aurelia had been right for him, that was obvious, and from everything Mira had been able to learn, Aurelia couldn’t have possibly been more different than Mira. His seriousness and Aurelia’s lighthearted, good nature had made them a happy, popular couple. Tarquin’s seriousness and Mira’s sullen attitude and ridiculous need to hate everyone had made them a big confused mess, with a healthy dose of fucking just to complicate things further.
He squeezed her hand then, and she looked up and met his gaze, and she wished that anything was different, just different enough that they could have a real chance. It wasn’t though, so she leaned her head on his arm as they walked, and pretended to be someone else, just for the day.
They stopped for lunch and sat side by side along a bar, squished next to each other, and Mira pointed out the many different creatures around them, all enjoying their own lunches. She’d never seen such a variety of beings, had never even known so many different species even existed, and she found herself twisting around in her seat to unashamedly stare around the room.
Tarquin was mostly quiet as she talked endlessly about everything she saw, focusing particularly on a table in the corner that held three men, all of whom could have been mistaken for dragon shifters except the dark wings protruding from their backs.
“Do you see that? Wings!”
Tarquin shot her a bemused look. “I have wings.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes but… on their backs!”
He just raised his eyebrows, but her attention had already been drawn to a group of ladies who’d just walked into the restaurant, each with long hair down their backs that seemed to be made of some kind of liquid. She’d exclaimed over them until her meal came, and then she’d eaten it quickly, eager to return her attention to the other patrons.
“Can I show you something?” he asked, when he’d finished eating as well, and she nodded eagerly and let him take her by the hand again as he led her out of the building, back onto the muddy, smelly, lovely street. He tugged her along for awhile, and despite the increasing familiarity of his hand in hers, she couldn’t ignore the heat that flooded her each time he squeezed a little tighter, or his thumb brushed her palm. He was focused on the road ahead, and she took the opportunity to study his face as she walked. It was handsome, as it always was, with the broad set of his jaw and his sharply carved features, but there was something else there now, something she hadn’t seen before. He looked relaxed. Happy, even.
It was a strange thing, she thought, to have known someone in the most intimate way possible, repeatedly and for months, and to have never seen them happy. The slight smile on his face as he walked, the way he held her hand— gently but assuredly, the way he glanced down at her occasionally and she couldn’t find any of the near constant grief in his eyes; it made her chest ache with a kind of bittersweet pang. It was a lovely thing to see him so relaxed, so pleased, but it made her profoundly sad that in all the time she’d spent with him over all the months she’d known him, she’d never seem it before.
On a whim, she pulled at his hand gently, and when he paused she pushed up on her toes and pulled his face down to hers and kissed him right there, in the middle of the street. Nobody watched; nobody cared. It was freeing and sweet, and when his big arm wrapped around her and his warm hand cupped her cheek, she thought to herself that maybe, maybe this could work. She held onto that thought when he pulled away, when he pressed his forehead to hers, and then still as they walked on, this time with his arm around her waist. It was awkward at first, the bumping of hips and learning each others pace, but the warmth and the closeness made it worthwhile.
Before long it was natural, and she thought that she could walk like that all day, until they came to stop in front of a run down looking building. It mostly matched the buildings to either side, and most of
the ones they’d passed along the street. It seemed to be some sort of tenement, given away by the multiple small balconies on each of the three stories.
Tarquin pointed to the rightmost balcony on the top floor, where she could see a small chair and nothing else. There wasn’t room for anything else.
“That was mine,” he said. “I used to live there.”
“You lived here?” she asked, surprise evident on her face. “Not at the palace?”
He shook his head. “Just for a little while. I hated growing up in the palace, I wanted to leave and when I was old enough I just… did.”
She smiled up at him. “That sounds nice. Did you live here with—” she couldn’t being herself to finish the question that she already regretted asking.
He shook his head, though, and there was only the faintest cloud of grief on his face before it disappeared again. “It was before that. I first met Cyrus while I was living here.”
